ient. In all their
lives they had never done anything vigorous or memorable. They were
doomed to go out before her children; when they were gone they would be
gone altogether. Neither Auntie Louie, nor Auntie Emmy, nor Auntie Edie
would leave any mark or sign of herself. But her children gave them
titles by which they would be remembered after they were gone. It was as
if she had bestowed on them a little of her own enduring life.

It was absurd and pathetic that they should think that they were the
Family.

But however sorry she was for them she could not allow them to dictate
to her in matters that concerned her and Anthony alone. If they were so
worried, about the scandal, why hadn't they the sense to see that the
only way to meet it was to give it the lie by taking Ronny, by behaving
as if Ronny were unquestionably Bartie's daughter and their niece? They
were bound to do it, if not for Vera's sake, for the dear little girl's
sake. And that was what Vera had been thinking of; that was why she had
trusted them.

But her three sisters had always disliked Vera. They disliked her
because, while they went unmarried, Vera, not content with the one man
who was her just and legal portion, had taken another man whom she had
no right to. And Auntie Emmeline had been in love with Ferdie.

Still, there was a certain dreadful truth in their reproaches; and it
stung. Frances said to herselv that she had not been wise. She had done
a risky thing in taking Ronny. It was not fair to her children, to
Michael and Nicholas and John. She was afraid. She had been afraid when
Vera had talked to her about Nicky and Veronica; and when she had seen
Veronica and Nicky playing together in the apple-tree house; and when
she had heard Ronny's voice outside the schoolroom door crying, "Where's
Nicky? I want him. Will he be very long?"

Supposing Veronica should go on wanting Nicky, and supposing Nicky--

Frances was so worried that, when Dorothy came striding across the lawn
to ask her what the matter was, and what on earth Grannie and the
Aunties had been gassing about all that time, she told her.

Dorothy was nineteen. And Dorothy at nineteen, tall and upright, was
Anthony's daughter. Her face and her whole body had changed; they were
Anthony's face and body made feminine. Her little straight nose had now
a short high bridge; her brown eyes were keen and alert; she had his
hawk's look. She put her arm in Frances's, protecting her, and the